


The Sweet Escape

by bleumysti



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 06:03:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18794449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleumysti/pseuds/bleumysti
Summary: 'Sometimes she gets in her clunker, and she drives. She tries to drive fast enough and far enough to outrun her demons, but she’s smart enough to know she can’t keep them at bay for long...'





	The Sweet Escape

**Fandom** : Roswell New Mexico

**Character** : Maria DeLuca

**Tumblr Inspo** : Dia de Maria

**A/N** : Cinco ficlets for Dia de Maria. Enjoy or not. Still rusty. All errors my own. 

—

Sometimes she gets in her clunker, and she drives.

Sometimes she drives until she nearly runs out of gas with the windows down and the music up.

She tries to drive fast enough and far enough to outrun her demons, but she’s smart enough to know she can’t keep them at bay for long.

And ahead of her is an open highway and endless possibilities.

When she realizes she cannot outrun what haunts her, she hides instead.

She hits the newest bar in a bigger town, and she loses herself so much she becomes someone else.

Tonight she’s Jessica, and she drinks fruity drinks that are way too sweet and barely give her a buzz.

And she’s not pouring for herself, no, someone else is serving her, and it feels good.

And she’s not the girl whose dreams were deferred for stale beer and waiting rooms.

Or the girl whose father bailed or whose best friend died, and whose mother is fading away because everyone leaves her in the end.

Tonight she’s not the dutiful daughter or the savvy business owner. She’s no one’s therapist; she’s no one’s priest.

She’s not the supportive friend or the listening ear, or the shoulder to cry on…

She’s not there to help someone find absolution in the bottom of a bottle.

She’s an artist, or a lawyer, or a real estate agent. She’s anyone and everyone or no one at all.

She sways in the middle of the dance floor. The music is strumming and bodies are gyrating around her, and she climbs on the stage in no time.

The music starts playing, and she grabs the microphone like a lifeline and grips it tight lest it disappears too, and she belts out Janis Joplin like it’s Woodstock and the world hadn’t gone to hell.

And only then is her escapism complete. Because people leave, but the music never does. It’s in her veins and songs are tattooed in her throat, and harmony spills from her lips telling stories by those far braver and freer than she – until she’s bewitching some looming figure who is transfixed.

And maybe those townies were right about Maria la bruja.

He’s all muscle and white teeth with brown skin illuminated by the bright lights from the stage.

Later on, when he pins her against a sooty back wall behind the bar, and he smothers her with hot, wet kisses that leave a trail of bourbon and mint along her sweaty skin, and murmurs the name of a woman who doesn’t exist, she thinks maybe one day Maria can be free too.

* * *

 


End file.
